impurity
by the good old days
Summary: If Amon had gotten to Korra before anyone else in Republic City ever got the chance. ::dark, AmonKorra with a dash of Stockholm, au ar:: ON HIATUS
1. Preface

_ i.m.p.u.r.i.t.y — Janae_

**Warning(s): **dark ; AmonKorra with a dash of Stockholm ; mentions of death and/or graphic death scenes ; helpless!Korra and dark!Korra

_Note: _I am very pleased to say that I have returned. Hopefully my updates will be regular and non-spastic, as they normally are. I'll be the first to admit that I've been unable to write ATLA fics in the past and hope that I can adequately write for LoK, because apparently I write killer PJO stories.

Also, I have shamelessly claimed AmonKorra as my OTP for LoK. I know. It's non-canon and disgusting. Go ahead. Tell me. I regret nothing. Technology and the amazingness of Amon have changed my thoughts on the pairing. It is love. Enjoi.

* * *

**P**|**r**|**e**|**f**|**a**|**c**|**e**

.

**S**|**t**|**o**|**c**|**k**|**h**|**o**|**l**|**m—**an emotional attachment to a captor formed by a hostage as a result of continuous stress, dependence, and a need to cooperate for survival

.

There are many ways it might have happened—she would not have met him; he would not have been captivated; they would not have fallen into something-that-was-close-but-not-quite-lustful-love.

She could have arrived later in the year, as she was meant to. He could have let her arrive at Air Temple Island safely. She could have been more careful, not flaunted her polarbeardog and Water Tribe garb. He could have given up that poisonous dream long ago.

However, life was not so. They were both spirit-touched, and therefore bound by glorious purpose.


	2. One

_i.m.p.u.r.i.t.y — Janae_

**Warning(s): **dark ; AmonKorra with a dash of Stockholm ; mentions of death and/or graphic death scenes ; helpless!Korra, dark!Korra and Equalist!Korra if you squint

_Note: _This is quite, quite long and I'm a bit ashamed—for loading you with so much.

* * *

**O**|**n**|**e**

.

**P**|**a**|**n**|**i**|**c—**a sudden overwhelming fear, with or without cause, that produces hysterical or irrational behavior, and that often spreads quickly through a group of persons or animals

.

"Naga, we're here!" a young Avatar exclaims excitedly. She smiles widely. _Finally_! The long trip had been worth the wait. "Thanks for the ride!" she calls as Naga bounds away.

She is too far off to tell, but the white man in green clothing who had fallen when the polarbeardog trampled past narrows his eyes. The Avatar in Republic City! There was someone he must contact.

.

"Wow, look at this place!" Korra grins, a small-town girl in a big city. "I've never seen so many—" But then a cloth is being pressed to her face, and her Naga is thrashing before going slack. What is going on? She feels desperately for the pull of the earth or water—something, anything. When she realizes that is futile, she tries willing fire from her hands. It works, but only just.

Before she notices, her body is being jabbed in different spots and suddenly she has no more energy to hold herself upright, let alone bend.

The last thing she hears before she blacks out is a gruff voice saying: "Do not harm the Avatar or her pet! We are under strict orders to let no harm befall her! Take them away."

.

Korra's eyes open groggily. Where—Naga! Was Naga alright? Her thoughts come quickly, frenzied, and she thinks it must show on her panicked face.

"Wake up, Avatar." The voice is deep, though not so deep as to be unpleasant, and charismatic. Korra's initial thought is to obey in order to hear this man's words of praise, but she does not listen. In fact, she squeezes her eyes shut tighter. "That was _not_ a request, Avatar, it was a command. Now wake up." When again she does not abide, a hand strikes her head. Her eyes fly open, and Korra realizes that she has been tied to a chair so that now her neck is stiff and sore. "You would do well to heed my words when at first I utter them, my young Avatar, so that I will not have to reprimand you. Believe me, the _last_ thing I wish to do is blemish your . . . frail body."

It is then that Korra looks at him—_really_ looks at him, taking in his body, his stance, his mask. His mask! The thing frightens her. It was mostly white, save for the bright red circle in the middle of the forehead. Briefly, she wonders why he wears it—she wasn't exactly going anywhere, mind you, and it _was_ just the two of them—and what he looked like without it—probably beautiful, she thinks, but then curses herself and concludes that, _no_, he must be _very_ ugly—among other things. All these thoughts flit through her mind as the man paces back and forth, and the hairs on Korra's neck stand on end.

"My name," the masked man murmurs, "is Amon." Amon. She wishes that she could say his name out loud, taste in on her tongue, but she does not for fear of punishment. Who knew what this crazy man could do? "Tell me, dear Avatar, what it is they call _you_."

"Korra," she manages. Her voice is hoarse and Korra realizes how unbearably _thirsty_ she is. How long had passed since she had last eaten?

"My, my, little Avatar. Do they not teach you manners in the South Pole? No? I understand that your speaking skills might be stiff, as you seem highly famished. Shall I call for supper, then, Avatar?" Dinner. So it was evening. But how many days had passed?

"Yes . . . please," she adds in her croaky voice, because it seems the thing to do. "Thank you . . . Amon." His name sounds odd coming from her mouth, the syllable forming awkwardly, much less refined than when it came from his own tongue. "But—although," she corrects herself, "I still do not understand why I am here."

Amon raises a gloved hand. "Shush, impatient Avatar, and wait for the meal to come. There is much I must explain to you that you seem to be unaware of."

.

Two people in funny-looking uniforms somewhat similar to Amon's set a table and chair down in her cell. The table is square and the chair has been set to her right rather than across from her, as Korra deems proper. Did people eat close to each other, here in Republic City? If she still _was_ in Republic City. She had no sense of time, place, or anything at all, here in captivity.

Amon takes a seat in the chair set down next to her. "I will dine with you tonight, and perhaps if you are civil and pleasant in my company, more frequently." Korra does not want to be civil and pleasant—she was starving and _cross_, mind you—but she does not voice her thoughts. It would only bring her pain.

The night's meal comes in courses. An orange soup with sweet potatoes and beef—_real_ beef, and not porkbeef or something! A salad drizzled in a sauce that reminds her of summer, though she's never properly experienced the season. Mixed rice with bits of corn and what seems to be turtleduck.

Though she is the Avatar, Korra is not used to such rich fair and gobbles up the food hungrily without thinking of the consequences. One hand was freed so that she might eat of her own free will. "Perhaps it would be best if you decreased your nutrition intake at such high speed, yes?" Underneath his mask, Korra imagines his eyebrows and lips raised in mock teasing. Still, she does not slow. "Suit yourself."

About halfway through the meal, something goes terribly wrong. Korra has said the wrong thing and it sets Amon off.

He gets a whole speech going about his traumatic childhood. "The bending of the elements is an unfair, unjust advantage! My entire family were non-benders, and we did not have the protection of money such as some. This made us very easy targets for the fire bender that extorted my father. One day, my father confronted this man. The fire bender took my family from me! And when he did, he took my face.

"That is why I wear this mask, Avatar. _That_ is why you are here. It is because you are impure, and have an unfair advantage. The Avatar is meant to keep peace, you say? Well, so far you have done nothing of the sort, not to mention that the Avatar is _never_ a non-bender!"

_I've only been alive for seventeen years! _she wants to shout. _Stop expecting so much of me! _(It is then, she realizes, that everyone in the world already does.) Korra cowers back in fear, or however much she can manage with her hands tied up and such. "My apologies," Amon says after he clears his throat, sounding sincere enough. "It is not often that I let my temper control me."

"You are stressed," the Avatar guesses, correctly so because the man next to her nods. "Talk to me, Amon. I will listen to you." Korra does not know whether she truly cares or is simply doing her duty as the Avatar. The man next to her sighs. What must be going through his seemingly unstable mind?

"The spirits have chosen me to usher in a new era of balance, Avatar. You have not been doing your duty."

"Balance?" Korra asks, still confused. "What needs to be balanced?"

"Everything! You were not informed of anything in the outside world while under the protection of the White Lotus. While you were away, the revolution has begun!"

"What are you revolting against?"

"Bending." Korra's eyes widen. How do you defy bending? If you were born with the gift, bending was a part of who you _are_. "Benders have always had an unfair, unnatural advantage over ordinary people, Avatar.

"The only thing bending has brought to the world is _suffering_! It has been the cause of every war, in every era. But that, dear Avatar, is about to change."

Korra can only manage one word. "How?" She half wishes she chose _why_.

Behind his mask, Amon grins. "I shall show you. I am due for a demonstration soon. Come with me."

Korra looks up at him. "I'm otherwise occupied at the moment," deadpans she.

.

"If you are good," Amon tells Korra as they walk, "I won't do what I do to those men—I will not do the same to you in public."

Korra raises her eyebrows. "But you will still do it to me, whatever it is?"

"Yes."

She huffs exasperatedly. "Then I don't see what difference it makes."

Amon stares at her. "Considering your _pride_, little Avatar, it will make all the difference in the world to you." He slings an arm carelessly over her shoulder and stares her down to stop her from protesting. "Believe me, my Equalists would tear you apart, pretty Avatar. You are safer this way."

Korra tries not to blush. Instead, she stops and takes an earthbending stance. The ground does not rush to meet her, does not change to her will. "_I_ can't bend." She tries again, this time to firebend. "I _can't_ bend," she repeats, a mantra. "I can't _bend_." She stares at him, mouth and eyes open in horrific realization. "What have you done to me?"

She sounds so broken it shocks her.

"It's not permanent," Amon says, as though it is reassuring—and perhaps it is, a bit. "Your attempts are futile. Now, come back to my side." She detects the double meaning, but does so anyways. Besides, as foolish as it is (as _she_ is), Korra feels safer under his arm. It is lean and strong—it reassures her in some small way.

When apparently they finally arrive, Amon opens the door for her. They seem to be backstage, because the deep red curtains are drawn. "Wait here," he says. "Oh, and be good." She sighs as if to say, _No promises._

.

"Brothers and sisters!" Amon says to the crowd, completely charismatic and charming. "I am the solution." The audience is a collection of approval, cheering and hooting and screaming in mad applause. _Solution to what?_ Korra wonders. _How do you become a solution to bending?_ To the three men kneeling on stage. "Prepare to be equalized."

Their eyes collectively widen in time with Korra's. One man—who looks to be Fire Nation, so perhaps a firebender?—stands quickly, fire blazing from his hands. Korra longs to again feel the pull of all her elements. The firebender lunges for Amon, and for a split second she worries for her captor's safety, but he simply sidesteps and uses the other man's velocity against him.

Then Amon's fingers are on the man's forehead and neck and the Fire Nation man no longer has flames streaming from the tips of his very being and Korra is confused, _so_ very _confused_, is this permanent like Amon said her's wasn't and—

Korra stifles back her scream, biting her lip, drawing blood. It tastes like despair.

Meanwhile, the other two men—she assumes that one is a waterbender and the other, an earthbender—await their verdict. The waterbending-looking one just pleads. He trembles and shakes and _please_ don't take my bending _please_ I am nothing without it _nothing_ you hear me—

Korra thinks she hears Amon say, "You're worthless," and decides that she just wants to feel safe again. Where did the charming man who told her to be good disappear to?

The earthbender, however, is stoic. His composure and facial expression is hard, like rock, like the earth which he will no longer be able to move after a few moments. He does not plead. He does not expect to change his fate with petty, meaningless words.

All too soon it is over.

.

She is back in the cell.

"What was your opinion of my demonstration, Avatar?"

"No, please!" she blurts. "Let me keep my bending. Please. Please. _Please_!" The Avatar is a thrashing, wounded creature—the only notion fear, the only thought is that this could well be the end of everything she's _ever_ known. Where is the godly spirit who brought balance, who ruled over kings and emperors?

After all, what was life without bending? She was the Avatar. _Bending_ was Korra's life.

Amon makes a _tsk_ noise. His mask seems even more menacing to Korra as it looms over, staring straight into her _soul_—the perfect face of disapproval. "You have fifteen seconds to convince me as to why I should allow you to stay _impure_, pretty little Avatar." Her captor had been doing that frequently since she had arrived here, she realizes—called her by her title, but always adding an endearment of some sort, however small. Somehow, the way he says it—in such an intimidating manner—at that moment makes her skin crawl.

"I'll—I'll help you take down other benders! With the four elements, I could help you take down anyone! I'm the Avatar! _Please_!"

His eyes pierce her, search for any sign of disloyalty. "You . . . may keep your bending, little Avatar. However, from now on you must follow orders—any and _all_ orders—and not wander during your stay here. You will be civil in the presence of company, and polite and refined when called for. I do hope for your sake, young Avatar, that you are a proficient actress. Your bending does depend on it, after all. And what is an Avatar without her bending?

"She is nothing."


	3. Two

_i.m.p.u.r.i.t.y — Janae_

**Warning(s): **dark ; AmonKorra with a dash of Stockholm ; mentions of death and/or graphic death scenes ; helpless!Korra, dark!Korra and Equalist!Korra if you squint

_Note: _THIS HAS BEEN TYPED UP FOR QUITE SOME TIME? WHAT TRICKERY IS THIS? I DON'T EVEN—

* * *

**T**|**w**|**o**

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**D**|**e**|**f**|**i**|**a**|**n**|**c**|**e—**a daring or bold resistance to authority or to any opposing force

.

Asami Sato's eyes fly open. "Wake up, sweetie," her father, the renowned maker of the Satomobile, calls gently—not softly but gently. "I've got something I want to show you."

"Wh-what?" Asami mumbles, still half asleep. "What do you want, Dad?"

The man chuckles. "What I want is for my daughter to get out of bed, get dressed, and come with her dear old father someplace."

She mumbles something close to "mmkay," or maybe along the lines of "five more minutes". Asami Sato closes her eyes, wills herself back into that nostalgic dream. She misses her mother desperately. It was an unjust hate, but she hopes that the terrible murderer (who just so happened to be a firebender) had received justice.

.

The Avatar, however, is less that satisfied with her living arrangements. Her stomach growls. The cell that she was housed in had a varying temperature and man-made lights. Without her bending, Korra was often freezing or sweltering.

Where was Amon? She knew that she would only be fed in the presence of that masked, demented, disgrace of a man. That sly, menacing weaselsnake!

The sound of a lock being opened. Korra supposes it is Amon—think of the devil and he shall appear—though it is not. Two chi blockers step in—Korra briefly remembers the story of the acrobatic Ty Lee, and assumes that every Equalist has followed in her footsteps—here for her daily dosage, she assumes.

"Don't worry, miss," one says in an odd accent. "We'll make quick use of you."

Korra holds out her arms horizontally, already used to the routine of her bending being taken away every six hours or so. It is how she inaccurately marks time.

The act is over soon, and the men are gone. Ominously, in their place is the last (but also perhaps the first) person in the world she wishes to see.

.

"Can I open my eyes now?" asks Asami Sato impatiently.

Her father groans comically. "A wise man once said, 'Wait.'"

Seven more steps. The sound of a door opening, large and loud and distinctly metal. The scent of something—hopeful despair? Or is that just the smell of her makeup? Five more steps. Stairs. Twelve of them. Twenty nine steps.

Asami is reminded of a childhood activity much like this—she would think it was a fun game; it was really a survival exercise. If she was blindfolded, she would have to accurately either place herself or escape the area. It was why she unconsciously counted her steps; self-defense was important to a woman of her status.

"Open your eyes now, Asami," her father tells her.

The first thing she sees is the giant, looming face of Amon.

Speaking of which—

.

Korra blinks, closes her eyes, as if this will make the masked man of her nightmares disappear. (When she sleeps, she is nothing. She is worthless and ashamed and I can't bend I can't bend why have you done this to me—) It does not work.

"What do you want of me?" she asks, a broken whisper. Fear encompasses her every thought. Where did the bravado she was known for run off to? Amon sets her on edge, rattles her, worries her. She does not know what she really thinks of him—hates that he can go from completely charming to utterly unsettling.

"I want you to cooperate," he growls. "I want you to support my ideals with every fiber of your being."

Korra swallows. "How do you know that I don't already?" manages she. She imagines that he must think her very foolish—a child, in comparison.

He laughs—no, not a laugh, a chuckle—darkly. "No matter. I came to inform you of your relocation. We can no longer keep you here in this . . . room. Your living arrangements will be upgraded every time that you prove loyal or useful."

"Thank you," she murmurs, though she is anything but. And there she sits, plotting her revenge.

.

Cut back to Miss Asami Sato, staring flabbergasted at the hard face of the Equalist leader. "Dad?" she turns towards her father.

Hiroshi places his hands on that of his only daughter. "Asami, sweetie, I was going to tell you this sooner or later."

"You're an Equalist?"

"Sweetie," he says, the voice of a perfect father, "I wanted to keep you out of this for as long as I could. But now that you know the truth, please, forgive me. Those people, those _benders_"—he says the word with such hate, such malice—"they took your mother from me. They ruined the world. With Amon, we can fix it. We can build a perfect world together. We can help people like us everywhere. Join me, Asami."

Vengeance. It drives people to do many things, sometimes horrible, sometimes terrible, things. Vengeance claims people, it claims lives. What would Mother think of them, these two hungry souls she left behind?

Still, Asami hugs her father, whispers "Alright" and seals her fate.

.

When she sleeps, she dreams. Korra is visited by people whom she cannot name, but merely seeing their faces makes emotions bubble to the surface.

There is a kneeling man in regal clothes who curses her predecessor. He stares her down, reminds her that she is a child, a _child_, _weak_, could never kill him—and she realizes that she does not have to. The girl who looks like the crazy man smirks, is too dangerous to approach with her Cheshire grin and arsenal of lightning and tears. Korra wonders if mental instability runs in the family, if Aang is showing her this because Amon is somehow related to them.

Amon—she had almost forgotten of him.

She wakes with a jolt, shivering. When did it get so cold? Fire—fire—your chi can warm you—and it does. Korra can feel flame licking, thrumming, _pulsing_ under her skin. She welcomes the element gratefully, a cloak to wear.

Footsteps. Close. Loud to her sensitive ears.

Korra feigns sleep.

"'Ey, Roshi," a man mutters, annoyed. "She's asleep. Hell do we do?"

Someone else grunts. "Hell if I know, man. Should we go ask Amon?" The men leave. The door is open wide and inviting—Korra can tell.

It takes less than a second to decide to bolt.

The action itself is surprisingly easy—running away, navigating through a maze of hallways as though made by her own hand. A wave of nostalgia and déjà vu passes through Korra as she runs—she has done this before, sometime, perhaps in many other lives, ran away. She has fled her home, fled a palace, fled a Fire Nation ship. In her memory she soars high over the ocean that birthed her, high over the earth that grounds her. Freedom.

The word itself has no meaning to her. Korra has never been free in her entire life. Perhaps it is for this reason that she runs faster, harder. Perhaps it is for this reason that she is caught.


	4. Three

_i.m.p.u.r.i.t.y — Janae_

**Warning(s): **dark ; AmonKorra with a dash of Stockholm ; mentions of death and/or graphic death scenes ; helpless!Korra, dark!Korra and Equalist!Korra if you squint

_Note: _Ahh. Finally.

* * *

**T**|**h**|**r**|**e**|**e**

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**A**|**v**|**a**|**t**|**a**|**r—**the descent of a deity to the earth in an incarnate form or some manifest shape; the incarnation of a god

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"And here I had thought that you had been doing so well, Avatar. No matter. I've been told that I'm very good at breaking spirits—and I shall break yours."

.

"You guys ready to win or what?" Bolin of the Fire Ferrets crows, the epitome of excitement. He is already decked in his uniform, minus the headgear, which he has always found annoying. He stretches in their waiting area, moving his upper body left and right but keeping his feet planted firmly. "Oh, hey, Juliet!"

The girl is short, blonde, and compliments her partner in more ways than one, like yin and yang. Hasook's arm is slung over her shoulder, comfortable. Hasook calls, "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to win the whole championship!"

Mako walks in. "You've got that right. I could use a day's rest. But we haven't won yet. Come on, guys. We're up."

"Presenting Cabbage Corps' Fire Ferrets!"

.

Her stomach growls loudly, a painful reminder of her hunger. Starvation. What a _degrading_ way for an Avatar to go down. Amon should know that he cannot win—should she die, her successor _will _defeat him.

Should she die.

Should she die.

_Should she die._

Would she die—here, alone, a failure?

No. She was the Avatar. Avatars are strong. Avatars are fearless. Avatars never got themselves _kidnapped_, that's for sure. She never in her life wished she was spiritually sound than at that moment.

She tries to meditate anyways.

"Avatar." Korra looks up, stares straight through him, eyes glassy. He holds a steaming bowl of soup in his hands, and her mouth waters at the sight.

"What _are_ you doing here?" she asks him. "I don't want _you_ here. I'd rather you send one of your men." She turns away from him, then, not from embarrassment but shame. Shameful for what, Korra is unaware.

"I brought you food," Amon says simply. "Or are you so much a spirit that you need not eat?"

The human in her cries out, aching. But the god in her is strong, unyielding, similar to the metal beneath her. Her inner Kyoshi states: "I do not want anything from you."

Amon comes closer, kneels next to her, examines her face. He does not seem to believe her. "You must think me a monster," he murmurs, mostly to himself, but Korra catches the words.

_Yes, _the girl thinks. _I believe you are terrible._

He stands suddenly, then, too out of character. His spine is straight and proud, his hands behind his back in a regal manner. But he says, "Do not burn your tongue, Avatar," before he leaves.

She ends up eating the soup anyways.

.

Night falls. Amon sits at his desk, which is neat and crisp and clean. Pencils lie atop papers, bills, and sketches of new posters. His hands touch the wood as there is a knock on the door. "Enter."

His lieutenant approaches. "Hiroshi and his daughter are here to see you."

The pair walk in. Hiroshi Sato is grinning, his black hair illuminated by the candlelight that Amon prefers over light bulbs. His daughter is a beauty, although the masked man thinks she could do without that small flicker of disapproval in her eyes. Perhaps she does not think this small room a suitable office for a leader of a revolution. Amon's office is small for the sake of his men—if equality is what he preaches, then it is by this rule he shall follow.

"Miss Sato," he says, "your people welcome you into our ranks. We rejoice at having such a skilled fighter aid us end this era of bending oppression."

The girl nods, blushing a bit at the compliment. Amon turns towards the man. "Hiroshi, what do you have for me?"

"Just minor modifications on the glove, sir. Also, I'm currently working on the Mechatanks—"

"The inside is operated just like a New Industries forklift, if it helps," offers Asami. "Works best against metalbenders."

"I have the blueprints for you. That is all."

Amon nods. "You are dismissed, Hiroshi. May I speak to your daughter in private for a moment?"

The man leaves without a word, although he looks anything but pleased.

"There is a girl—a captive—your age who is causing a bit of a nuisance. She is quite hostile. If you are willing to do this great service, I will send you in early next week to persuade her of our ideals. Be forewarned that she is a bender of high skill, though I ensure your safety. Do you accept this mission?"

The Equalist leader can tell that the girl chooses her words carefully. "I will do whatever I can to help the oppressed," says Asami with sudden resolve.

Amon nods.

.

"Woohoo!" Bolin jumps up, one fist in the air, grinning. "One more win and we're in the championship tournament!"

"Alright, Bo," Mako says coolly, "we haven't won yet. One more match, remember?" Of the pair of brothers, Mako is more the pessimist than his brother.

Hasook laughs. "Oh, have some faith in us, Mako! You don't think we'll win?"

Bolin's brother grumbles. "I never said that."

The group heads towards Bolin's favorite noodelry. They have just won their match against the Platypus Bears, easily taking two of the three rounds. "Well, I think you guys will do amazing!" Juliet claims. "And so do my parents!"

"Thanks again, sweetie." Hasook kisses her hair, and she smiles widely. "For getting Cabbage Corps to sponsor us."

Bolin and Mako both high five her, agreeing. "Hey, anything for Daddy's precious little girl, right?"

They celebrate long into the night, and the moon illuminates their happiness.

.

Cut back to a certain Avatar.

The soup has given her enough strength to pace in her cell—the dreams render her restless and her inability to meditate, edgy. Her nightly visions make no sense at all to her, and Korra has always been known to be more lacking in a spiritual sense—her strengths help her little here. _I have to just think, _she yells at herself. _Think. Think. Think._

"You have all the power in the world and you're still weak—_weak, weak, weak_—" "Why didn't you tell us you were the Avatar—" A girl, she's burned her, fear on her face and scars on her body— "I trusted you!" "The Avatar can never have a family." "Where there is light, there must be darkness to fill the void."

At first Korra tries to block the visions, but that brings a sharp, stabbing pain and then it's hopeless to resist anyways. They mostly seem to be snippets of her predecessor's lives—Korra recognizes Zuko, Katara, Sokka, and the other war heroes she had met before they died.

She seems something—could that really be the lionturtle?—and then promptly blacks out.

.

When Korra comes to, her confusion turns to agitation and then morphs into fear. Before this the only fear she felt was the belief that she might not pass her firebending test—and that was closer to nervous rather than fearful. She sits up, head pounding. She appears not to be on the floor of her cell, but rather in a bed. Beds are odd things to Korra, since she has never really used one. She slept on mats, cots, or—often during her earthbending training—the bare ground.

Korra scans the room—and that's when she sees him at his desk. Perfect posture, or at least Korra assumes so since she's never had a teacher in that area. He seems to be working on papers of some sort, paying no minds to her. She scans the room quickly.

And Korra bolts for the door.


End file.
